


One Last Dance

by leigh_adams



Series: Serenata Immortale [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Community: rarepair_shorts, Death Eaters, F/M, Infidelity, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh_adams/pseuds/leigh_adams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her wedding day, Daphne shares one final dance with her former lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of a prompt table for rarepair_shorts. This is set in a world where Voldemort triumphed instead of Harry.

It was a typical spring day in Bedfordshire. The air was light, the breeze was cool, and the ever-present clouds threatened imminent rain. From her room in Greengrass Manor, [Daphne](http://www.sweetandtalented.com/images/knightley/knightley42.jpg) had a perfect view of the back garden and all those who mingled about, waiting for the happy moment. All of society was there, dressed in their finery and ready to partake in her father’s hospitality and bottomless champagne. She could even see the Dark Lord, flanked by Lucius Malfoy and Gregory Goyle, Sr., already present and seated in his position of honor in front row of chairs.

“Whose idea was it to have an outdoor ceremony in the springtime?” Pansy asked as she swept back into the room, a dark vision in her green satin bridesmaid’s dress.

Daphne raised a brow at her friend, lips twitching upwards. “Father’s,” she answered simply.

“Well, that explains it, then.” The dark haired woman stopped and gave Daphne an examining look, taking in her appearance from her elegant updo to the tips of her satin slippers. Her brown eyes softened, and she gave her friend a small, rare smile.

“You look beautiful,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” Daphne replied automatically as she turned back to look out the window at the guests. It was kind of her friend to say, but nothing would change the way she felt. She had the outwardly appearance of a perfect society princess on her wedding day, yet she felt as though she were Anne Boleyn, waiting for the last-second reprieve that would never come.

Pansy moved to stand next to her and reached out to grasp her hand. Her dark gaze silently followed Daphne’s out onto the lawn, a soft sound of surprise falling from her lips when her eyes lit upon their skeletal master.

“I thought the Dark Lord was in Germany,” she murmured.

“Father said he rescheduled his plans in order to be here today,” the other woman replied. “Apparently, this is a great honor.”

“It is,” Pansy reminded her. “Despite all this, this shows how high Gregory has risen in the Dark Lord’s favor.” Her voice dropped to a whisper before she said, “It grants you a bit more leniency.”

“Leniency? For what?” Daphne asked, brow raised. At her friend’s knowing look, she scoffed and shook her head. “No, Pansy. It’s over, and we both know it.”

“It doesn’t look like he knows it,” a voice from behind them noted, and both women turned their head to see the other member of Daphne’s retinue- her cousin, Astoria. She was of the same, slender build as Daphne though she was a bit more petite than blushing bride. Her dark hair was pinned back with diamond clips which perfectly matched the silver accents of her hunter green gown.

“Speak plainly, Rory,” Daphne said. “What are you on about?”

Astoria’s heels were muffled against the plush carpet as she moved to stand next to her cousin. She lifted one delicate hand and pointed to a group of people clustered together on the lawn. “He’s here.”

Daphne followed her cousin’s hand, and her heart practically stopped beating when she saw the tall, handsome visage of her former lover. He was resplendent in his dress robes and looked quite at ease, chatting with Millicent Bulstrode and Lysander Montague.

“I thought you told him not to come,” she exclaimed to Pansy, her eyes wild as her head whipped about to look at the other woman.

“I did,” Pansy breathed, her own face frozen in surprise.

At the look on her friend’s face, Daphne sighed and wrapped one arm around her friend’s shoulders. “I didn’t know Father invited him,” she murmured, though she was no longer speaking of Blaise. Blaise, she knew for certain, had most likely just shown up, or arrived with Millicent or Tracey. There was no way in the seven layers of Hell that her father would have invited him.

“It’s alright.” It took a moment, but Pansy shook herself out of her mental reverie. “I’m fine.”

Her friend most certainly was _not_ fine, but seeing her former lover after a year apart did have that sort of effect on women. Montague had once been to Pansy what Blaise had been to her, and her own affair had just as quickly been quashed by her father. Montague had neither the social standing nor the financial security that Malfoy had, therefore he had not even been a candidate for Pansy’s hand in marriage.

“Do you miss him?” Daphne whispered.

“With every breath I take.”

The door opened suddenly, and all three women whirled around to face it in a flurry of green and white satin, trying to quell their racing hearts as they did. Upon seeing their intruder, Daphne’s heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach. She’d known it would happen no matter what, but a small part of her had been wishing-nay, _praying_ \- for something to save her from this fate.

“Daughter,” Devon Greengrass said evenly, “it’s time.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

The actual ceremony was naught but a blur to her. Her father had walked her down the aisle and drawn back her veil, giving her a cool kiss on the cheek before he placed her hand in Gregory’s and took his place amongst the onlookers. She had half a mind to wonder at the gesture; it was possibly the only display of affection he’d shown for her in his entire life.

But when Gregory’s large, clumsy hand had closed around hers and pulled her closer, all other thoughts had swept from her mind. She felt no love for her fiancé, and he felt none for her. To him, she was merely a vessel to produce pureblooded sons with. For her, he was her prison.

The Dark Lord waited to wish them well until all the other guests had passed through the receiving line. When his tall, imposing figure had stopped in front of them, Daphne had swept into the lowest curtsy she could imagine. Eyes were averted downwards; one never looked the Dark Lord in the eye. It was both a gesture of submission and of necessity. Though he did not need to look into a person’s eyes to read their mind, one was practically _begging_ him to if their gazes locked.

“My Lord,” she murmured, eyes firmly on the floor. She only rose out of her curtsy when she felt long, cold fingers cup her chin and draw her back upwards. Her breathing was even, but shallow, and her mind was clear as she looked up and into the crimson, depthless eyes of Lord Voldemort.

“My congratulations, Daphne,” he said in his eerie, raspy voice. “A woman of your breeding will make Goyle a fine wife.”

“I thank you, my Lord,” she replied evenly as she tried to keep her mind blank, empty of all thought and emotion.

He held her chin in his finger for a moment longer before he released and turned his attention to Gregory. “Goyle, a word.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Leaning in, Gregory brushed a cool kiss over her cheek before following the Dark Lord out of the elegant ballroom.

Daphne was now left quite alone, a fact that she did not mind. It would give her time to compose herself before her husband came back. They were spending their honeymoon in the Seychelles at the Goyle’s summer villa, and though Daphne was looking forward to seeing the sun once more, she was _not_ excited about spending a month alone with Gregory.

The idea of _lying_ with him made her want to vomit.

She was just taking a sip of her champagne when she heard a _very_ familiar voice behind her say, “Mrs. Goyle.”

Heart beating madly, Daphne took a deep breath and turned to face Blaise.

“Mr. Zabini,” she said evenly, her voice devoid of emotion. He cut a handsome figure in his dress robes, though he always had looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.

Blaise gave her a low bow and held out his hand. “May I have the honor of a dance? Unless, of course, your husband objects.”

“As my husband has been temporarily called away by the Dark Lord, I can grant you _one_ dance,” she said, placing emphasis on the singular notation of her statement. It was risky- she had no doubts that her father was somewhere in the room, watching her as always- but at the moment, she could not bring herself to care. Placing her hand in his, she let him lead her out into the throng of dancers.

One hand held hers firmly while the other one slid around to the small of her back. Despite the layer of material between their skin, she could feel the heat radiating off of his palm, warming where it rested.

“You look beautiful, Daphne,” he murmured as the orchestra struck up another waltz. He led her effortlessly through the steps, years of dance lessons and other society niceties paying off.

“I thought Pansy told you not to come,” she replied, her face calm and collected though her words were heated.

“She did,” he said, a hint of amusement coloring his words, “but when have I ever listened to what other people say?”

“You should have. People will talk.”

“And what will they say? There’s nothing to see but two old classmates, enjoying a dance at the matrimonial event of the social season.” Blaise’s tone was dry, almost sarcastic, but there was an underlying hint of bitterness which colored his words.

“Don’t do this to me, Blaise,” she whispered as he pulled her even closer; there was just enough room between them to maintain a façade of propriety. “Please. Don’t you know how hard this is for me?”

“How hard this is for you?” His words were incredulous. “You don’t have to see the one person you’ve ever cared for marry a man whose IQ is equal to that of a mountain troll.”

“No, but I have to be the one married to the mountain troll.” Her voice was low, but her words were impassioned. “And he may be dim, but he isn’t completely stupid. If he comes back and sees us…”

“What does it matter? You’re _his_.”

It made Daphne’s heart hurt to hear his defeatist tone, though he spoke the truth. She was married to another man now, and whatever feeling she harbored in her heart for Blaise, she had to push them aside now. It would be best for the both of them to just cut everything off; she had tried when she’d gone to see him, but neither of them wanted to end things.

“I know,” she whispered.

The song drew to a close, and Blaise let his hand brush over her side as he released her from his arms. The skin beneath her dress pebbled into awareness at his touch, and her body flushed with the memory of the last time he’d had his hands on her.

“Mrs. Goyle,” he said, returning to his coolly polite tone as he brought her hand to his lips and dropped a chaste kiss there, “I thank you for the dance.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Zabini,” she returned just as formally.

Casting a glance around the room for persons unknown, Blaise leaned in and, in a moment of reckless abandon, brushed a kiss over her cheek.

“You have my heart,” he murmured. “Never forget.”

Before she could reply, he released her hand and strode off of the dance floor, leaving her on her own once more. Her eyes watched him go, and her heart was heavy with regret and longing.  
“I’ll never forget,” she whispered. _I love you, Blaise_.  



End file.
